Maybe Holes Are to Dig

Long ago – not so long ago, really – months after Cork died, I was downsizing our backyard. I knew I could no longer keep it the way it was. The joy of having it was working with it, together.

We had already leveled the raised flower garden and planted a lawn. We gave up the vegetable garden plot that grew among the sweet peas, against the back wall. Lettuce, green beans, peas, tomatoes, onions, radishes, potatoes grew – all the ingredients for healthy meals. Melons (our dogs enjoyed them – we never got one). Gone, our collection of 25 rosebushes. Taken down was the swing and sheltered gazebo where we watched the stars, many a time — the redwood was getting too frail to trust.

All that was left to remove were the brick edgings, here and there. Digging up bricks, one day, we hit on something hard – couldn’t be a rock; couldn’t be a brick. The hole we dug around it stood filled with water, every day, for two days. Finally, unexpectedly, something moved – slowly but surely the shovel got underneath and up popped a big red brick and with it, a message scratched on top:

Betty- I have read this a couple of times now and each time I cry. Cork’s brick message to you is what life is all about. The whole meaning of life in its simplicity written on a brick. You and Cork were each others beloved. I wish everyone in the world experienced that kind of love. Thank you so much for sharing, for giving hope to the world.